Books often play a big role in people's holiday memories. Some of us receive a gift book that becomes a cherished memento or starts us on a lifelong love of reading. Or a family reads a certain book each year as part of their holiday traditions. We asked you to share some of these memories with us, and so many of you responded that we won't be able to publish everything. What follows is an edited sampling of your heartfelt comments. Thank you for gifting us with your memories.

Long-lost treasure: For most Italian families, Christmas Eve has always been the biggest night of the year; 1943 was no different. As tradition went, gifts were opened after midnight; that was when my sister and I opened our big gifts. I was 7 years old that Christmas, and my sister was 3.

On Christmas morning we would get books, small gifts and candy in our stockings. That year we received two special books: "The Velveteen Rabbit" by Margery Williams and "Little Sunny Stories" by Johnny Gruelle. My mother read these stories to us almost every night.

When I got old enough to read, I read them so often, I had them memorized. When I was 16, we moved to a two-flat; our dolls and storybooks were put into a large trunk in the basement and were soon forgotten.

In 1961, my husband, three little boys and I moved to the first floor of that house; my parents still lived on the second floor. I remembered the books and wanted to read them to my family. The trunk was still in the basement; however, when I opened it, it was empty. My mother said she got rid of all that junk. I was heartbroken.

Through the years I searched for "Little Sunny Stories" in bookstores, flea markets and thrift shops to no avail. ("The Velveteen Rabbit" was a classic that I could buy anywhere.)

Two years ago, on Christmas Eve, my second son told me he had a surprise for me. Everyone watched while I opened his present. When I tore off the paper and opened the box, there was the book, "Little Sunny Stories." He had found it on the Internet. Sixty-seven years after receiving the first copy, I received a second copy of my beloved lost book.

— Carmelita Rock, LaPorte, Ind.

A cup of Christmas kindness: One of my favorite Christmas books is "A Cup of Christmas Tea" by Tom Hegg, illustrated by Warren Hanson. My late husband read about this book, and we decided we would like to have it. So my husband gave it to me for Christmas 1982.

It is a beautiful, simple story of a reluctant nephew who is invited by his great-aunt to visit and have a cup of Christmas tea. The text consists of short rhymes on each page, accompanied by lovely small watercolor pictures.

As I read it, even today, it touches my heart for the elderly who live limited physical lives but still eagerly show interest in everything, and it's positive and encouraging. His visit brought back his memories of the sights and smells of Christmas past. He sees the real "Christmas miracle" of a soul who keeps Christmas deep within — a great-aunt whose body, though nearly spent, is yet whole and eager to chat and share a cup of Christmas tea.

— Dorothy Koopman, Western Springs

Adventure ahead: When I was about 10 and already indulging my love of reading mysteries, there was a purple, flowered suitcase with my name on it under the tree. It was really heavy. When I undid the zipper and lifted the cover, I found a dozen yellow, hardcover Nancy Drew books! To this day I remember the thrill of that sight, knowing hours of adventure and intrigue were waiting for me.

A boy and his dog: When I was a girl of 7 or 8, I received a book for Christmas titled "A Dog of Flanders" by Marie Louise De La Ramee. I loved that book! My mother read it to me over and over until I learned to read it myself; every time I read it I cried. It is the story of Nello, a young Flemish boy, and his beloved dog, Patrasche, who live in Antwerp, Belgium. It is also a story of faith, love, kindness, poverty, cruelty and redemption. As our family grew, I shared this book with each of my eight children, who love it just as much.

Seventy-five years later I still have that book. Several years ago the book was made into a movie, and I attended the Saturday matinee, which was full of children. I sat in the back row all by myself — and, yes, I cried.

— Dee Lisy, Westchester

Solace for a wounded heart: "Four Little Puppies" (named Wags, Rags, Tags and Obediah) was the book that has taken me on my lifelong journey with a love of books. It all started with a crushing sadness at Christmas when I was a small child: the sudden death of my beloved father on Christmas morning. Overwhelmed, I took this little book that was part of my "Santa" and escaped into the pages of four mischievous puppies. There I found a level of solace that books can bring. It also began my lifelong love of animals, which has given me more than I can ever describe.

Hundreds of books have followed that have given me hours and hours of peace, enjoyment and fulfillment. My own ambition that resulted in writing three books was born of that little book. Today I am also part of an active group of therapy dog volunteers.

No one realizes what an impact one little book can have, but, oh, it does!

— Maryanne Burke Battistini, Highland, Ind.

A lesson learned: My Aunt Annetta gave me "Geraldine Belinda" by Marguerite Henry for Christmas in 1947, a few weeks before my third birthday. My parents, younger sister and I were living in a Quonset hut in occupied Okinawa, Japan, where my Air Force navigator father was stationed.

Geraldine Belinda Marybel Scott saved her pennies in a piggy bank until she had 25. What a lot of things 25 pennies could buy at Mr. Tweedle's notion shop! Feeling quite the grown-up, with her purchases wrapped in a brown paper horn, she ignored her friends as she walked home with her nose in the air. Onthe way, her toys fell out of the package, but the friends she had snubbed returned them to her.

The moral, which I remember to this day, is, "Don't put on airs when you have pennies to spend — for you never can tell how the story will end."

— Candace George Thompson, Chicago

A friend for life: It was during WWII, and not a lot of kids things were available. My Christmas gift was the Nancy Drew book "The Mystery at the Moss-Covered Mansion." I can still picture the illustration on the cover. Scary! What a perfect gift during those deprived years to take a young girl in a small Ohio town into a world of excitement and adventure. There was even an old "haunted house" on the south side of town where I could envision this taking place. And it introduced me to a longtime friend, Nancy Drew.

An annual treat: At 55 years old, my favorite Christmas story is "Red Ranger Came Calling" by Berkeley Breathed. I discovered the book years ago and read it to my boys, though at times I was sure some of the story was lost on them. But not on me. I have my very own hardcover copy and still read it every year. The ending is a lesson for us all.

— Lorelle Silverman, Long Grove

Rocking horse to the rescue: Christmas 1952 was a special one for me. I was 5. The previous spring I was all but lost to a burst appendix. As I was wheeled away, my dear mother asked, "If you are a good girl and breathe in the special mask, what would you like for Christmas?" All I could say was "a rocking horse and a puppy."

I healed, and the puppy came on a warm summer day. And at Christmas, I received a book titled "A Little Cowboy's Christmas" by Marcia Martin (I was determined to grow up to be a cowboy — not a cowgirl). It was the most enchanting story of Lawrence, who wanted a white horse for Christmas. When his dad told him not to be disappointed if he didn't receive a white horse from Santa, Lawrence was devastated. His parents quickly decided that daddy would go find Santa and tell him to bring the white horse. Daddy takes off in a snowstorm and comes back with a beautiful white rocking horse. Christmas morning was magical for Lawrence as he rode the white horse with glee.

This book was my heart and soul for a long time. I got my horse that Christmas. It was a red wooden one, but that didn't matter. I had my horse and my book.

— Sharon Johnson, Brookfield

Escape from the cotton fields: I slouched and wriggled on a worn patchy sofa in the rickety cotton-sharecropper cabin where we lived in the southeastern boot heel of Missouri. In those days just after Christmas, I was engrossed in looking at the pictures in a standard nursery rhyme book I had received from relatives in Alabama. Here on the page, wonder of wonders, hopped a simply elegant black hen named Hackety-Packety. Hackey was a special hen, laying eggs for fine gentlemen. I had never known a hen that could lay more than one egg at a time, but here was a miracle fowl who could lay 10 eggs at a time.

Mother accused me from time to time of being foolish about books. But she was wrong. I knew she was wrong, even at such a young age. Books can be that enchanting. That transporting. That compelling. They could take me thousands of miles away from the cotton fields. They could show me wonders I would never have encountered otherwise. What more could a person ever want for Christmas?

— Dotsey Wiseman Welliver, Wheaton

The miracle of kindness: On Christmas Eve, for the first 46 of my 51 years, a family member read aloud the short story "Why the Chimes Rang" by Raymond Macdonald Alden, a tale of two young brothers who bring about a miracle by performing a simple act of kindness. This family tradition was started by my paternal grandfather in 1937 when he discovered this story, written in 1909.

These days my husband, our children and I begin the holiday season with a reading by my father on Thanksgiving. Four generations of my family have now shared the beautiful experience of sitting quietly together in the living room listening to this story, a story that has always embodied the spirit and meaning of Christmas to me.

— Christopher Daniel Schram, Chicago

Teaching without preaching: Each year at St. Paul of the Cross School in Park Ridge, in the month of December during the '50s, Sister would set aside a few minutes each day to read aloud to the class. The book was always the same, "The Birds' Christmas Carol" by Kate Douglas Wiggin. Written in 1886, this poignant story of a bedridden child who shares her last Christmas with the impoverished children next door, whose antics have entertained her as she watched from her window, became a tradition for me. What a wonderful way to teach without preaching the true meaning of the holiday from a child's point of view. This story still brings a tear to my eye 60 years later.

— Kathleen Pluth, Rolling Meadows

A memorable reprint: I was 14 in the 1960s, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my family's living room thumbing through one of my mother's magazines when an illustration atop a short story arrested my page flips. It was (I later learned) Andrew Wyeth's painting of his son, Jamie, sitting alone in a winter withered field. It was illustrating Truman Capote's story "A Christmas Memory," which the magazine was reprinting.

Intrigued, I began what I intended to be a cursory skimming of the story, but from the moment Capote's Miss Sook excitedly exclaimed, "Oh my, Buddy, it's fruitcake weather!" I was enthralled by this warm, evocative, sometimes funny, sometimes heart-wrenching glimpse of Christmas in 1930s Alabama, when the author was 7 years old.

Despite my being an African-American teen, caught up in the turmoil and triumphs of the era, Capote's love for Ms. Sook and the small rites and rituals that made Christmastime their own were lovingly similar to my own Chicago-based family's cozy, warm and heartfelt Christmas memories, which I looked forward to all the more after reading Capote's moving narrative.

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